


mille torbidi pensieri

by ernestdummkompf (JehanFerres)



Category: Don Giovanni - Mozart/Da Ponte, Opera
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 07:43:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14397447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JehanFerres/pseuds/ernestdummkompf
Summary: leporello experiences some thoughts. giovanni experiences something else entirely.





	mille torbidi pensieri

**Author's Note:**

  * For [widevibratobitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/widevibratobitch/gifts).



> so this was originally gonna be straight-up giovanni has a breakdown, leporello tries to deal with it, but I Guess It's Introspection. and something vaguely akin to character study, because that's all i can fucking write apparently. surprise.
> 
> as stated above this is for widevibratobitch, but it's also kinda an idea i had a while ago. i'm MEANT to be writing an essay about don giovanni's character but like. he doesn't make any Fucking Sense (which is one of the main points in the essay tbh). so i wrote this fic instead.
> 
> there's a lot of animal metaphors in here, which you are more than welcome to read something into if you wish, but that you are also welcome to ignore in their entirety. it was just the imagery that came to mind when i was writing it, but jeez there was a _lot_ of animal-based imagery Within The Confines of my mind.

For the whole of his life, Leporello had never had a master, nor had he known any person who ranked any higher than him, who seemed to _enjoy_ his company, or at least not like Don Giovanni appeared to. He knew that Giovanni was an accomplished liar, but even so the past four years had only seen the odd ridiculous squabble and, once Leporello had accustomed himself to Giovanni’s habits and personality, he found that they worked quite well together.

Not that there weren’t certain things about his master that Leporello disliked.

There were the obvious things, yes: the constant lying, the philandering, the seduction of innocent women, but those all went without needing to be said. He had known four years ago when he had been told what his duties would entail that there would be parts of the job that he wouldn’t agree with doing, but it was hardly the first time he had had a job with aspects that he disapproved of. He had _thought_ , foolishly, for maybe a week, that it would just be the same situation as those jobs.

He had never been in a position, however, wherein he was constantly in the company of his employer, and therein lay the problem. Even for a nobleman, Giovanni was an odd man. Quite aside from his particular habits of apparently trying to seduce his way around Europe (and the expectation that Leporello facilitate this), he was completely unlike anybody that Leporello had _ever_ served.

Sometimes, Leporello was reminded of a finch, or another small, quick bird, when he watched Giovanni. He was never still for more than ten seconds at a time, constantly flitting from place to place and from thing to thing or fidgeting with whatever he was holding. Leporello had seen him pace for hours on end, tossing a dagger from hand to hand, just for want of something to do. (It was little wonder, then, Leporello thought, that he was so skinny.)

He was energetic in a way that exhausted Leporello, who had previously thought himself to be active, but it was almost as if Don Giovanni operated on a different sense of time and energy to the rest of the world. He would be up for days sometimes, forgetting to eat unless Leporello gently reminded him and walking miles, and Leporello would usually feel as though he had to keep up with his master’s antics in case he found himself in a ditch.

When Giovanni was in this sort of state, Leporello had rapidly discovered when they he had first joined his service, he could be horrible to be around. He was already unpredictable as standard, with moods that seemed to last for between two seconds and two minutes, but when he was also frantic Leporello didn’t think it was worth even _trying_ to guess what sort of mood Giovanni was going to be in for that five second period.

Leporello generally just assumed that Giovanni would be violent and angry if Leporello accidentally did something that he took to be an insult. He was right most of the time – Leporello was no stranger to ducking out of the way of flying glasses which, no matter how much Giovanni’s hands and entire body seemed to be constantly shaking, never missed their mark. He was also no stranger to picking up both the literal and figurative pieces after Giovanni had a breakdown, and he sometimes thought that this usually excitable, effervescent man sobbing so much he nearly vomited was worse than the initial fury.

He stuck with it for two reasons.

The first was that Giovanni paid him far more than any of his other masters ever had (partly out of a lack of understanding of the _value_ of money, not that this was something that Leporello was complaining about), but partly because it was the only way he could get anybody to stay. The second was that Leporello was far past a point at which he would have been able to leave. Giovanni could have stopped paying him years ago and Leporello would still have stuck doggedly by his side; he was far past being able to disentangle his and Giovanni’s lives from around each other. In all honesty, he had probably been past that point for about four years, possibly even since the instant he and Giovanni had first met.

At his best, Giovanni was brilliant and charming and witty, and Leporello could understand only too well how he left a trail of women weeping after him, and how he managed to charm his way out of beatings from furious husbands and fathers and friends. At his best, even though he was easily distracted and excitable and sometimes even frantic, Giovanni was impossible to dislike, and he was utterly compelling to be around.

This was one of those rare moments when Leporello would actively seek out Giovanni’s company. Usually, if they happened to be in the same place at the same time, Leporello would put it down to luck, or fate, or the size of the palace, or something else that he had no physical control over, and he would get on with what he was doing while Giovanni got on with whatever it was he did with his time.

In this case, though, Giovanni and Leporello had been sitting together, companionably but quietly, in one of the drawing rooms of the palace for a couple of hours now. Giovanni had been plying Leporello with whisky for most of the time they had been together but, after four years, Leporello had finally become wise to the fact that Giovanni had considerably higher alcohol tolerance than he did, so he hadn’t drunk more than about half a (very small) glass, and Giovanni had drunk most of the rest of the bottle. Despite this, they were about as drunk as each other.

“Leporello?” Usually, Giovanni’s voice sounded nothing but measured, even if he was affecting a higher level of passion than he was currently feeling. Now, though, Leporello could tell that something was off, but he decided to test the theory and didn’t answer. “Hey. _Leporello_.”

Oh dear. Leporello lifted his head slightly and pretended to stop reading his book, even though he had stopped paying attention to it when Giovanni had first spoken. “Sorry. I was…” Leporello slightly inclined the book, but instantly regretted it, and every other decision he had ever made, when Giovanni’s expression didn’t change.

Sometimes, Leporello thought that he understood Giovanni’s emotions better than Giovanni himself did, but moments like this made him realise that no, Giovanni only broadcast a small fraction of his emotions in a way that would make sense to Leporello. There was a lot more going on in his mind that Leporello would ever be able to understand, and a lot more than Leporello _wanted_ to understand. Yes, Leporello was particularly empathetic and he found it easy to read the feelings of other people, but Giovanni operated in a manner that sometimes barely seemed human.

This was one of those times, where he seemed more like some sort of very dangerous predator, and even though he tried not to let it, the sudden switch from friendly but quiet to anger _scared_ Leporello. Logically, Leporello knew that Giovanni simply couldn’t accept not being the centre of attention for even a second, but that knowledge was of about as much _functional_ use to him as somebody pointing out to somebody that the starving predator stalking him was just after food. He still didn’t want to be the sole focus of Giovanni’s anger.

Leporello still knew to play his part. He slowly put the book down and pressed his body backwards and against the back of the armchair he was sitting in. In this case, though, it appeared that even giving Giovanni the attention that he had decided that he wanted to begin with wouldn’t suffice, because he was almost instantly on his feet.

For a second, all that Leporello could think was _God, you know I’m not acting, you know I’m legitimately scared of you, why do you need to act like this?_ But he knew that Giovanni was barely aware of what he was doing most of the time. This was probably one of those times.

Even so, knowing what he was doing didn’t help when Giovanni was deliberately winding him up and trying to press all his buttons at once, because Giovanni was close enough to Leporello’s face that Leporello could smell the alcohol on his breath. Leporello didn’t want to, because showing weakness in the face of _this_ would just make it worse, but he leaned back and tried to look away, but Giovanni clearly wasn’t having it, any of it.

“I think we have a misunderstanding.” This had to be a trap, it had to be, but Leporello couldn’t understand how. He said nothing, hoping that Giovanni would continue and not just loom threateningly over him. “We can _act_ like I am your friend, Leporello,” he said, dragging out his name in a way that was more menacing than anything else he had ever said, “but that’s only on _my_ terms, not yours. You seem to have forgotten that I am your master.”

Leporello swallowed heavily and nodded.

“Do you understand that?” Leporello nodded again, but apparently _that_ didn’t satisfy him either. “ _Do you understand that?_ ” He wasn’t shouting, he never did, not unless he or Leporello was in danger and they needed to move _now_. But the low, soft voice, scarcely more than a growl or a hiss, that he used when he was truly angry with Leporello was somehow more frightening.

Leporello fought off the urge to just pull his arms up over his head and retreat into himself. “Yes.” God, he sounded pathetic, but it at least seemed to satisfy Giovanni. He patronisingly patted Leporello’s chest in a way that made him cringe noticeably, and then went and sat back down. Leporello wasn’t sure what Giovanni wanted now, but he was too scared even to look in his master’s direction, let alone to ask, so he just sunk even more into the chair.

Leporello was trying to pretend not to be paying complete attention to Giovanni – because for all he knew, _that_ would set him off too – by staring into the fire that had been roaring about half an hour ago. Now it was barely embers, but neither of them was going to get up to put more fuel on it. But – and Leporello knew that Giovanni knew this – he was watching Giovanni out of the corner of his eye, his shoulders slightly raised and his body language suggesting that he was expecting to be murdered any time now.

Leporello was beginning to think – not for the first time, either that day or that week – that if he just left Giovanni now he would be so much better off for it. It was less, these days at least, that he had periods when he thought that he was better off leaving Giovanni as that he had periods when he wanted to stay with Giovanni, and then the rest of the time he wanted to leave.

He was beginning to calm down a bit when Giovanni suddenly stood up. Before Leporello had any opportunity to react, or even to ask if something was wrong (although he knew that something _must_ have been wrong), something exploded on the wall above his head. He heard the unmistakable sound of glass smashing against a solid object because it had been thrown, followed by Giovanni all but _screaming_ , “God, I can’t _stand this_!”

Leporello was too frightened to get up from his seat, even as Giovanni, physically shaking and with his hand clamped over his mouth, took a couple of steps backwards and then sprinted out of the room. Leporello was dragged back to the real world by the door opening again, to reveal one of the palace’s maids

Leporello had been doing his best to keep Giovanni and this maid as far away from each other as possible, partly out of pure possessiveness of Giovanni which he would never actively admit to but also partly because God, she couldn’t have been much more than about fifteen or sixteen years old. She was _far_ too young for Giovanni, a man over ten years her senior, to so much as touch, and, to absolve for his lack of empathy for anybody else Giovanni had seduced and then abandoned, Leporello had taken upon himself to keep her out of harm’s way.

“Sir?” She was sheepish, and tiny in a way that even Giovanni (who had always been incredibly slight) wasn’t, and Leporello had never been so glad to see another person in his life.

“Don’t go after him,” Leporello said immediately, then, when the maid looked confused, he added, “he won’t want attention in that state.” Yes, he _would_ want attention, but he would want exactly the wrong sort of attention. He didn’t want to drag her into this; she didn’t deserve it.

Finally, Leporello forced himself to get up and went over to examine the bottle of whisky that Giovanni had primarily been drinking from. They had started with a full bottle, but there wasn’t more than about half an inch of the drink left in the bottom of the bottle now. He would probably finish it once he had cleaned up the damn broken glass and then gone and made sure Giovanni was still alive.

“What is it?” The maid had found an old newspaper, bless her, and she was clearing up the broken glass.

“Be careful of that,” Leporello warned, his tone sounding far too paternal for his liking. “It _was_ a bottle of whisky,” he said, swirling it around in what passed for an appraising manner. “Now it’s… a good couple of measures of whisky.”

Naturally, because the maid was very young, she looked completely blank at Leporello’s mention of a “measure” of whisky, but she still laughed good-naturedly. Leporello went over to the cabinet full of bottles of various liquor in the corner of the room, unlocked it, and put the bottle back with rather more force than was necessary. The other bottles rattled.

Seeing that the maid was nearly done clearing up the broken glass, Leporello looked at the door. “I should go and deal with…” He indicated the direction he had heard Giovanni running in when he had left. He didn’t know what “deal with” would mean, but there was nobody else who either would _or_ could “deal with” Giovanni when he was in a bad state. Leporello locked the drinks cabinet again, finished off the half a glass of whisky he had left because he was too anxious to drink it when Giovanni was in the room with him, and then went off in search of his master.


End file.
